Exaggerated, passionately entangled compositions.
Provocative linework.
Colors that set the blood racing...
He had to admit — even before transmigrating, this was exactly the type of doujin Oreki Gen would have bookmarked... Wait, did that just reveal something about him?
His attention needed to be on more important things. For instance — in the original source material, he'd known Sakuraba Mitsuki's hobby was painting, but it had never once mentioned she painted doujin.
Was this an added detail? Or another fact altered by his transmigration?
Oreki Gen lifted his head.
"Sakuraba-san... Please don't tell me the reason you brought me here as a model is to model for your doujin."
Now that she'd shown her hand about the doujin, her purpose was obvious.
Oreki Gen felt like a living piece of prey sitting before a predator — or perhaps a specimen already pinned to the board.
Sakuraba Mitsuki's face seemed to recede into shadow, taking on a peculiar hue.
Like a tulip hidden in a dark chamber — exactly like those Queen of the Night blooms planted in the front garden.
"Then what did you think I dragged you all the way out here for, with all this setup? Because I have good manners?"
Sakuraba Mitsuki was indeed not a particularly courteous person. What Oreki Gen hadn't anticipated was how far this world's "correction" had already gone.
He thought for a moment, then looked at the stunningly beautiful, aristocratic girl.
"I can model for you. As long as you honor our previous agreement and don't use that ability on me again."
Sakuraba Mitsuki smiled and nodded, though her eyes clearly held a note of contempt.
"Of course. I'm not someone who enjoys making promises, but once I do, I keep them."
"So what do I need to do? Just sit here?"
The question came across as almost naive — and of course, this was the naivety the young man needed to "perform."
Sakuraba Mitsuki gazed up at the ceiling with a contemplative look, speaking half to herself.
"Earlier, I asked if you were someone who liked to challenge yourself."
"I already answered that."
"I know. But I am someone who likes to challenge myself. So when I discovered that obtaining certain things came too easily — with no challenge whatsoever — I started trying to use other identities to pursue other achievements."
Why bring this up now...? Still, Oreki Gen studied her gleaming jawline and said, "Like becoming an accomplished artist? To gain a sense of achievement in the arts?"
Sakuraba Mitsuki nodded slightly.
"Exactly. That's how it started. But I found that even that sense of achievement came too easily. More and more people learned which paintings were mine, and more and more of them started offering baseless, hollow praise — just to flatter and curry favor."
"And that's why you'd rather draw doujin, Sakuraba-san?"
A look of satisfaction crossed Sakuraba Mitsuki's face. She drew a slow, deep breath.
"Yes. Because only then will people never suspect that something like this could possibly be the work of Sakuraba Mitsuki, right? It's fine, Oreki-kun — you can think I'm strange. But challenging yourself at things you're not good at? That's where the meaning of life lies."
"Then isn't dedicating yourself to what you excel at meaningful too?"
Sakuraba Mitsuki walked toward Oreki Gen, step by step, and fixed him with an up-close stare.
"That's most people's idea of meaning. My meaning is more like a video game — opening new maps, unlocking unknown territory, and racking up every achievement along the way."
Oreki Gen looked at the girl who was now radiating an almost overwhelming presence.
He blinked.
"Then shouldn't you start by giving up your family name? Stop leveraging your background and connections. If you did that, you'd probably find everything in life suddenly becomes a lot more challenging."
"...My birth isn't something I chose. And Oreki Gen, you talk too much."
Seeing her expression sour, Oreki Gen thought of two words: hit a nerve.
Before he could speak, Sakuraba Mitsuki cut in with undisguised impatience.
"Stand up."
"Why?"
"You're already my model. What — do you want me to use my ability again?"
So they'd graduated to open threats now?
The young man stood up, as if left with no alternative.
The shift in dynamics was immediate — clearly standing over half a head taller, the young man suddenly cut a far more imposing figure.
"And then?"
"Take off your shirt."
Sakuraba Mitsuki said it without a shred of hesitation.
Just like that.
Oreki Gen looked at her with feigned disbelief.
"You can't be serious."
Sakuraba Mitsuki seemed quite pleased with his flustered expression. She couldn't stand this young man being calmer than her.
"Does this look like a joke? You should have figured out why I brought you here the moment you saw those sketches. Of course, you're free to refuse. But once you walk out that door, I can't guarantee what might happen."
Oreki Gen could have surrendered right then and there. But like someone clinging to the last shred of defiance, he asked one final question.
"There's nothing special about me. If someone else did this, they'd jump at the chance. You have no reason to fixate on me, Sakuraba Mitsuki."
Sakuraba Mitsuki suddenly smiled.
"Honestly, I don't entirely know why, either. I'm someone who despises men's gazes. I hate when they look at me — even when they try to sneak glances. But you, Oreki-kun... Only you are different. You're special. I noticed you a long time ago. You're the only one who doesn't just ignore me — you seem to actively avoid me every time I appear."
Of course Oreki Gen wouldn't admit to that.
"Couldn't it be the opposite? Playing hard to get, using avoidance to catch your interest?"
"I can sense you're different from others. Your avoidance was genuine — you truly didn't want to encounter me or have anything to do with me. Of course, if that really was your strategy... then at the very least, you've succeeded. And I'll have plenty of opportunities to confirm which one it was."
She watched as Oreki Gen's expression seemed to grow increasingly grim.
And in response, she broke into an even more captivating smile.
"So — either take off the shirt now, or walk out the door. And you should know that my family's resources can find you at the ends of the earth."
Oh yeah? What if I transmigrate back?
That was just a joke, of course.
And everything that had come before — the surprise, the resistance, the reluctance — had all been part of Oreki Gen's carefully designed performance.
The moment he'd seen that sketchbook, he'd already connected it to the text message. He knew what was going to happen. He knew what she'd demand.
So he stood there, looking as though he'd agonized over it for an eternity, and finally spoke.
"I hope you'll keep your promise."
With that, he reached for his buttons and began unfastening his shirt.
Sakuraba Mitsuki said nothing. Her eyes were locked, unblinking, on Oreki Gen's hands as the young man peeled open his shirt, layer by layer.
The defined lines of his chest emerged.
Straight, squared shoulders.
Perfectly proportioned collarbones.
Inch by inch of skin, laid bare before her eyes.
"That's enough, right?"
Oreki Gen asked, as if humiliated.
Sakuraba Mitsuki still seemed to be admiring the view. She shook her head.
"Of course not. The trousers too. I don't like repeating myself. So — hurry up."